Sixteen and Dying (6 page)

They left the ranch right after breakfast and drove the hundred miles to Denver. The city, with traffic and noise and exhaust fumes everywhere, was a shock to her senses. The weather was dry and hot, made hotter by the sun’s reflecting off concrete and glass buildings. The large hospital complex was surrounded by looping roads and expansive asphalt
parking lots, packed with parked cars. Anne missed the quiet ranch.

She endured the blood test and physical, then sat with her dad in Dr. Rinaldi’s office while the physician reviewed her records.

“How’s Anne doing?” Her father craned his neck to see the chart the doctor held.

“Her lungs are clear. However, she’s anemic, so I want her taking iron and B-12 to build up her red blood count.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m feeling tired,” Anne offered.

“You’ve been bothered by fatigue?” her father asked. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s no big deal, Dad.”

“Yes, it is a big deal,” Dr. Rinaldi countered. “Fortunately, your T4 cell count is still up around five hundred. If it falls below two hundred, you’re going to be at serious risk for infections. That patch of dry, flaky skin on your back and upper legs is also a symptom of lowered T cells. I’ll give you a cream for the rash.”

Anne only nodded. The information about her T4 cells bothered her. While the number was still within acceptable limits, it was lower than when she left New York. She felt time and good health slipping away from her. “I’ll do what you tell me,” she promised.

“I’ve spoken with Dr. Becksworth in New York, Anne,” Dr. Rinaldi said. “We both think it prudent that you start on AZT right away.”

She still didn’t want to. She didn’t want to face the side effects. She’d made so many plans with
Marti and Morgan. “Please let me have three more weeks at the ranch. As soon as I get back home, I’ll begin taking the drug.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Dr. Rinaldi replied.

“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “I need to live normally before I die.” She felt waves of desperation.

“Anne, be reasonable,” her father said. “It’s your life.”

“Don’t force me to do this yet,” she begged.

“I understand how you feel, but I disagree,” Dr. Rinaldi said. “Nevertheless, I can’t force you to start on AZT against your will. However, if you have any new symptoms—fever, shortness of breath, or persistent cough—I want you right back here to start the medication. Understand? The length of time from infection with HIV to the development of AIDS hasn’t been adequately researched in women. All we kow for certain is that women face serious illnesses with AIDS that men don’t, for instance, cervical cancer and pulmonary tuberculosis.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, Dr. Rinaldi, it’s working,” Anne said. Her hands felt cold and clammy, and she was getting queasy.

The doctor’s gaze softened.

“I know you want me to begin treatment, and I’m being stubborn,” Anne told him. “I’m not in denial. I know I have HIV. I’ve had to accept other things I couldn’t control—like my mother dying. It’s made me tough.”

Dr. Rinaldi steepled his fingers. “Women with AIDS are dying six times faster than men with AIDS. Once a woman is diagnosed with AIDS, her life expectancy
is less than thirty weeks. I simply want to delay that time for you as long as possible, Anne.”

“Listen to the doctor,” her dad pleaded. “Let’s go back to New York or start on the AZT, Anne.”

“People can beat odds,” Anne said, lifting her trembling chin. “Dad, let me have a few more weeks to remember.”

“All I can help you with is postponement of fullblown AIDS,” the doctor replied. “AZT has the power to delay the onset.”

“But not the inevitable,” Anne remarked.

“No, not the inevitable.”

She looked from Dr. Rinaldi to her father. She felt their anguish on her behalf, yet she couldn’t forget why she’d come to Colorado. JWC had given her the Wish money without strings, to spend on anything she wanted. Anne knew what she wanted. “Then, if the outcome is exactly the same either way, I’d rather have a few weeks of freedom. I can’t forget what’s hanging over my head, and I know you’re both only trying to help me.… Thank you for that. I have very few choices for my life. Please, let me make this one.”

Morgan paused while walking the bay stallion around the training ring when he saw the station wagon coming up the long drive toward the main lodge. Anne and her father had been in Denver the whole day.
Probably shopping
, he thought. His mother used to shop continually. Even when there was no money.

He watched the car pull into its parking space and Anne and her father get out. Even from his distance,
Morgan could see how exhausted and defeated they appeared. Anne’s father tucked her under his arm as they headed toward their cabin. To Morgan, the gesture appeared protective.

Morgan thought of Anne as beautiful and wealthy. What in the world could she have to be unhappy about? He pulled the tether and clicked to the horse. The horse obeyed, following Morgan docilely as he resumed walking in the ring.

“I need to stop thinking about that girl,” he told the bay. Yet, even as he said it, Morgan knew it was becoming impossible to do so. Somehow, Anne and her sad eyes had gotten under his skin. Which was stupid—especially in his case, when he knew what his own future might hold. Exceedingly stupid.

M
ORGAN BEGAN TO
watch Anne. He observed that although she joined in many of the group activities, every afternoon she saddled up Golden Star and rode off alone. One afternoon, curiosity got the better of him, and he followed her.

He allowed Anne plenty of distance. Since he was an expert tracker, he easily picked up her trail if she got too far ahead. He figured out that she was heading toward Platte City, a small town about ten miles north of the Broken Arrow. Many of the married ranch hands lived there with their families, and sometimes Morgan went to the town to relieve the monotony of ranch life. The main street offered residents only a few stores, a movie theater, an icecream parlor, and a pizzeria. He couldn’t figure out what Anne found to do there every day.

He rode up on the outskirts and reined in his
horse. He saw Golden Star tied to a tree in the yard of the local church. The whitewashed wooden building was very old, but in good repair. Its tall steeple stabbed into the sky, and from the looks of the parking lot, the church appeared deserted. Morgan dismounted, tied his horse to the tree, and slowly climbed the front steps. As he reached for the door handle, he lost his nerve. What would she think if she saw him come inside?

“Just don’t let her see you,” he told himself, pulling open the door. Inside, sunlight slanted through a single stained-glass window, spilling a rainbow of colors over the altar. The wooden floor and pews gleamed, and a faint odor of lemon wax hung in the quiet air. He saw Anne sitting alone in the very last pew, her head hung low. Suddenly, he felt like a trespasser. He tried to ease out, but his boot scraped on the floor, and she turned.

Her eyes grew wide with recognition. “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking as if he’d caught her doing something sinful.

“I saw Golden Star tied outside, and I came in to investigate.” He hoped the half-truth would be enough of an explanation for her. “You okay?”

“Sure. Fine. I was … um … just contemplating.”

“Contemplating what?”

“Things.” She gestured vaguely. “I asked permission from the minister. He said I could stay.”

“I’m not prying,” Morgan said hastily. Now that the mystery was solved, he felt foolish. “I was surprised to see one of the ranch’s horses outside … that’s all.”

Anne stood. “I come here some afternoons to be
alone. Some days, I stop by the library and check out books. I’m real careful with the horse.”

“I’m not worried. I’ve seen how well you take care of him.” He fiddled with the hat he’d removed when he came inside. “You go to the library? Man, when I graduated, I swore I’d never read another book.” Anne looked horrified, as if he’d blasphemed. He chuckled. “Let me guess. You’re a bookworm.”

“The worst kind. I can’t imagine never reading another book. It would be like your never riding another horse.” She started for the door, and he felt bad, sensing he had spoiled something special for her.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“It’s all right.” She glanced at her watch. “I should be heading back, before Dad misses me.”

He followed her outside, where they paused and blinked against the brightness of the sun. To one side of the church, there was an old cemetery. “Have you ever checked out the tombstones?” he asked, trying to make up for intruding on her. “Some of them date back a hundred years.”

For a moment, her expression clouded, then her large brown eyes warmed. “Show me,” she said.

He walked her through the old graveyard, pointing to various headstones. He stopped at one and said, “Here lies my Great-great-great Grandmother. She was a full-blooded Cheyenne who converted to Christianity.” The stone looked ancient and sun-bleached and bore the name Woman Who Wears a Cross.

“I didn’t realize your family went back so far. Tell me about them.”

Morgan was annoyed at himself for mentioning it. The last thing he wanted to discuss was his family. “Some other time,” he said, stepping to the next marker.

Anne stooped and plucked a handful of wildflowers from around the old gravestone. “One of my favorite poets is Emily Dickinson. She wrote about death in many of her poems.” Anne cradled the flowers against her cheek. “One of my favorites starts out, ‘Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me— / The Carriage held but just Ourselves— / And Immortality.’ ”

Morgan felt a chill as he saw the image of black-robed Death pulling up for him in a horse-drawn carriage. “Emily was kind of depressing, don’t you think?”

Anne looked thoughtful, and he was struck again by the fathomless sadness in her eyes. “She was very original, and her imagery is wonderful.”

“You sound like a teacher.”

Anne laughed. “Sorry. I’ve always wished I could write poetry, so sometimes I get overly enthusiastic.”

Morgan saw pollen left by the flowers on her cheek. He reached down and smoothed his thumb across her silky skin, then wished he’d kept his hands to himself. Touching her made him want to touch her more. “Whatever happened to old Emily?” he asked.

“She died a recluse. It must be sad to die alone. Yet, I don’t think she was afraid of death. In another poem, she wrote, ‘I never spoke with God, / Nor visited
in heaven; / Yet certain am I of the spot / As if the checks were given.’ ”

“Is that why you come to the church? To contemplate poetry?”

Anne looked over her shoulder toward the simple white frame building. “No. I come to find peace.”

Morgan thought her answer baffling, but on one level, he understood it perfectly. “If you find it, share it,” he said. “I’ve always wondered what peace would feel like.” Her eyebrows knitted together, but before she could ask him a question, he took her elbow and said, “Come on. We’d better start back before Maggie rings the dinner bell. On the way, we can talk about the picnic Skip’s planned for next week. You are coming, aren’t you?”

Anne sorted through her closet in vain. “It’s no use,” she grumbled to the empty room. She didn’t have a single thing to wear on a picnic.

“What’s the big deal?” Marti had asked that morning. “You throw on some jeans and a T-shirt.”

The “big deal” for Anne was spending all afternoon and evening with Morgan. Ever since he’d caught her at the church, ever since he’d touched her cheek, listened to her talk about poetry, ridden home with her, and studied her so solemnly with his blue eyes, she’d been unable to think of anything else.

She’d never known anyone like him. All the boys back home in her school were like children compared with Morgan. He was guarded and mysterious. She yearned to know what motivated him, what made him so secretive and distant. “Forget it,” she
told herself. “Just have fun with him.” She attacked her closet again.

Anne was still trying on outfits when Marti arrived. “Aren’t you ready yet?” Marti wailed.

“Almost. Which looks better—the blue shirt or the red one?”

“The blue. Now, let’s go. The guys are waiting down by the corral, and we need to get saddled up.”

Hurriedly, Anne changed shirts and tugged on her boots. At the corral, she slipped Golden Star a lump of sugar and tossed a saddle over the horse’s back. She tightened the cinch and swung her leg over. “What’s keeping you?” she asked Marti.

“I’m all thumbs with this saddle,” she complained. “How do you do it so quickly?”

Anne didn’t tell her that her speed came from wanting to be with Morgan. “Lots of practice.”

They rode through the yard to the edge of the fenced property near the barn and corral. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Skip couldn’t take his eyes off Marti as they rode up. Anne noticed that Morgan smiled at her, but there was no gleam of adoration in his eyes like the one in Skip’s.

They fell into a slow pace, with Skip and Marti riding in the lead. The sun beat down on Anne’s back, and the air smelled like newly mown hay. “I thought you might be riding the bay by now,” Anne remarked, noticing that Morgan was astride his regular quarter horse. “I’ve seen you working with him, and he looks tame to me.”